Painting with Gabriella

Get started by setting up your painting station. I have to have paper, paints, my paintbrush, Q-tips, water and a paper towel handy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mom says “be creative,” so I draw whatever I want — weird smiley faces, flowers, letters and squigglies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I like to make paintings for people I know. This one’s for Grandma.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After I paint, I need to let everything dry. I like to look at the painting while it’s drying, so I ask Mom for tape to hang the picture on the refrigerator.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I REALLY like tape, so I make sure to put a bunch around the edges of the picture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Taaahh-daahhh! Art by me!

 

Postcards from our Southern adventure

Which way to Atlanta?

In two weeks time, our family of four put more than 2,300 miles on a rented Mazda 6, exploring the backwoods and the highbrow of the South. We flew in and out of Atlanta, but Alabama was our main destination. We crisscrossed the state, spending spurts of time in Georgia, Mississippi, Tennessee and the Florida panhandle. Yes, it was amazing. However, since I can’t cover all that transpired in one post, I’m picking some of the highlights and lessons learned from the trip, so here goes.

Alabama radio is seriously lacking. Sorry, y’all, but it’s true. Since our family was spending quite a bit of time on the road, we perused the $5 bins for CDs in several Walmarts. Our menu of music was: The Band Perry, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Blackfoot, Alan Jackson and The

Don’t ask Shane!

Who. I almost added a Duran Duran’s greatest hits to the mix, but Adam was not enthused with my suggestion.

An iPhone mapping app is essential. We bought two maps and collected a free one from an Alabama rest stop, yet we still managed to depend on the step-by-step instructions issued to me by my iPhone. This was especially true when we were in Nashville. Nashville is awesome, but the freeways are crazy and running at full capacity all the time. They were daunting, so I served as the navigator, while Adam whizzed along.

Speaking of Nashville, here’s another lesson learned: Not all Econo Lodges are created equal. My online booking of a room in the downtown Nashville Econo Lodge was done after good luck with the hotel chain in southern Alabama. However, when we smelled our room and saw some of the guests from those surrounding us, we chose to eat the $57 dollars and look for a better place. It took some time, but we scored an awesome room in Brentwood. Hooray!

It doesn’t matter who you talk to in Alabama, every person likes to brag about the beautiful white beaches on the Gulf Coast. But seriously, why wouldn’t they brag? Check it out. Sand like sugar.

Sometimes you just need a good steak. After blathering on about the Gulf Coast to Adam for months, I had built up the notion that we were going to get fresh seafood. And not just your run-of-the-mill seafood, but seafood Southern-style. Well, after a day spent at the beach in Gulf Shores, AL, I was starved to death. Adam and I went back and forth discussing all of the options for dinner, but I had this crazy hankering for red meat (this isn’t normal for me), so we ended up going to a steak house where I had a gigundo rib eye and proceeded to eat every last morsel – including the fatty trim. There was no smidgen of seafood on either of our plates that night or any other in our entire trip. So all that talk about fresh seafood did nothing, but make us sick of it before we’d ever even eaten it. Huh.

Access to the dead is easy. I suppose it’s our sparse population and our snow and permafrost, but Alaska

Shane getting a swimming lesson from Dad.

doesn’t have many cemeteries, so it really struck me when we would drive past so many on our travels. Some were butted up right against residential neighborhoods or along major roads and all of this seemed unsettling. To me, cemeteries should be calm and serene, places where the dead can rest peacefully and their loved ones can visit to gather some solace. I’d be pissed if I were laying forever more by the endless drone of cars speeding down a highway or teenagers screaming orders into the microphone of Dairy Queen drive-thru.

The power of “bless their heart” statements. You can say pretty much anything and then add “bless their heart” at the end of it and it will erase any cruelty espoused. For example, and this is purely an example I’ve made up to prove my point, “She was just the ugliest little thing when she was born, bless her heart.” See? It really works.

Spanish moss. Well, it’s cool. That’s all.

Awesome playgrounds abound. I don’t know if we were just lucky

ME… on the beach. I’m almost as white as the sand.

or communities are learning that the key to get kids to play outside is to build amazing apparatuses and parks, but we found some cool places for Gabriella and Shane to play. The Gulf Shores playground was our first find. It was just down the road from the Civic Center and was built in the shade, but the structures and equipment encompassed a huge area. There were educational pictures and information built onto the sides of the structures that provided history of the area and facts about sea life found in the nearby ocean. It was super cool. Then, in Nashville, there was a great park at the Nashville Zoo at Grassmere. This thing was enormous! It was so big we actually lost our kid in it! I know the playground had to be more than an acre in size – and that’s the connected structures I’m talking about, not just the grounds. They had a three-story swirly-slide for God’s sake and a “tot lot” for toddlers where everything was covered in mats. Can you say “hallelujah?” Yeah, it was beyond cool after schlepping the kids through the zoo on a hot day.

Common pleasantries. It’s so nice to be called “Ms. Amy” or to have a young lady say, “Thank you, Ma’am” or to have the mail carrier bring my grandmother’s mail all the way up her driveway, so

Gabriella and her cousins, Rhylynn and D., all decked out for the hottest wedding I’ve ever attended (nearly died of heat stroke after I wolfed down some stuffed mushrooms in the muggy heat with gnats in my face).

she can save her the trip and check on her. It’s so refreshing to hear people speak and act kindly to one another – especially strangers. Don’t get me wrong, people can be kind everywhere, but it’s nice to have a sense of formality, manners and displayed respect for those older than you.

Being around family should be relaxing. I am an anxious freak. I worry about all sorts of things that seem extremely dumb when I have time to reflect back on it. One such worry was whether my kids would annoy the heck out of my family members. After all, it’s been some time since many – especially my grandmother in her 80s – have been around small children. I worried and worried and fretted about my kids’ behavior, but to my delightful surprise the mellowest, helpful person of all was my grandmother. She rocked Shane for more than an hour to get him to sleep; she endured Gabriella’s bossy potty mouth and

Rhylynn and Gabriella are mesmerized by the imaginary baby in this stroller!

made sure that none of us went hungry (not even for a second). She was awesome. She helped me chill and enjoy myself without worrying that she was going to explode if my children screamed or slammed a toy car across the coffee table. She said, “Amy, I’ve just about seen it ALL. They’re just kids.” It was cool. My grandma wasn’t the only one to help, many others did too, but I must give the woman props, I mean she’s 83-years-old for goodness sakes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shane and I at the Nashville Zoo at Grassmere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was most excited to visit the Flamingo Lagoon at the zoo. So cool!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gabriella on the go at the Gulf Shores kids park.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

See what I mean? Who wouldn’t have fun in this giant playground? I don’t know where any of the kids were when I took this picture. Weird. Just noticed that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shane’s hat was a big hit on the beach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gabriella and Adam at the entrance to Grassmere in Nashville.

 

Hopeful spring

Oh yeah! These tickets are gonna bring the dough home to Momma!

It was after 6 p.m. on the deadline – April 4. In just a few short hours the contest would close and Adam and I were sitting in a Sourdough Fuel parking lot filling out 10 Nenana Ice Classic tickets. Obviously, we’re dilly-dalliers, but we got the tickets in and now we’re just biding our time until we’re contacted about our winning guesses.

For those family members, friends and visitors that are reading this from Outside, let me explain. The Nenana Ice Classic is the closest thing Alaska has to a lottery. The pot’s not so big, but it’s gambling, and on Mother Nature no less! Since 1917, the contest has taken place. Anyone can purchase a ticket (you don’t have to be an Alaska resident), and make a bid for $2.50. Your bid is the precise hour and minute the ice goes out on the Tanana River. I know, I know what you’re thinking: “Nenana?” “Tanana?” What the… ? Well, the deal is that the community of Nenana sits right on the Tanana River and each year the community constructs a large tripod on the frozen river. Connected to that tripod is a cord and that cord runs to a clock and when that clock is tripped by the tripod moving down river (enough to rock the tripod), the time is recorded. If the time on your ticket matches that of the clock – you’re a winner.

Here’s some background, according to the Nenana Ice Classic: “In 1917 railroad engineers bet $800 guessing when the river would break up. Last year, in the classic’s 95^th year, the winners shared the prize money of $338,062. Over $11 million has been paid during the past 94 years. Payoff will be made June 1^st 2012.” I’m waiting for my $300K and change.

So what else, has this family been up to? Well, Adam and I took the kids to a cool Easter egg hunt on the University of Alaska Fairbanks campus last Saturday. The event was sponsored by the Circle K student group and was free! Gabriella had a blast. She’s a total over-achiever and found way, way more eggs than necessary.

The boy like to eat!

We ended up turning in her first basketful for some treats and then the girl had to go out for more! We got another basketful, but this time my daughter absolutely refused to turn them in. They were like sacred gifts from God. The girl begged and pleaded to take them home, so I caved. In an attempt to keep things even in the cosmos, I made a $20 donation to Circle K and hoped that covered the 52 plastic eggs in Gabriella’s basket! Next, we went to a local coffee shop and indulged in some red velvet cake and hot chocolate. It was a good day-before-Easter celebration. Of course Easter was great too. Shane surprised us all by how much prime rib a one-and-a-half-year-old kid can consume. He’s a total carnivore and cracks us up by saying “Happ-um, happ-um,” which is his way of saying “happy.” It’s sweet!

The snow is melting, the days are long and sunny and there are puddles everywhere. These signs of spring mean it’s time for Adam to go back to work. This week he’s been plowing out hard pack and getting things rolling for summer. The geese can be heard honking overhead and I saw a spider for the first time in nearly seven months. It’s like everything’s waking up, getting

A funky black spider that surprised me in the bathroom tonight!

motivated, eager to make the most of the sunshine and warmer temperatures. I’m still unsure what to wear. Each morning I wake up and peruse the ol’ closet. Some days I throw on a sweater and other days I don white jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. My fashion is taking cues from the sunshine, but the temperatures haven’t caught up with it all. I find myself crunching through half-frozen slush in a parking lot in dress shoes with no tights. It’s odd.

So, as a family we’re good. Everyone’s cheery and revived by the sun and now we just need that Nenana Ice Classic jackpot to fund some awesome summer plans.

 

How do you define “risque”?

My ticket from the February 18 production of the Sweet Lust Burlesque at the Blue Loon.

Burlesque — In Fairbanks? The two don’t naturally meld, but, yeah. Just two weeks ago, I spent $40 on a pair of tickets to a local production called “Sweet Lust Burlesque.” I was excited as back in 2009, I had gone to a show at a grundgy workin’ man’s bar on the industrial side of town. “The Lonely Hearts Burlesque” was set up on a riser with scarves draped in the background on a dark side of the bar. My expectations weren’t high, but I had a blast! The show had me laughing and grooving to sultry songs, risque skits and silly routines. It was the same outfit putting on the show this round, so I thought a new venue with professional lights and a good sound system would really deliver. Sadly, I was disappointed.

Although the “Sweet Burlesque” had a cool premise — a Candyland/Wonka twist — the production just didn’t work. I think it’s because it went too far. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an ol’ prude, but this production celebrated the raunchy, a vibe akin to what you’d see an old stripper sink to when the tips are light on a long night at a low-end club. Simulated sex acts replaced song and dance routines and the cast seemed more a bunch of exhibitionists than performers. The show bounced around in a tasteless bout of vignettes, which drew the eyes because of their shock value. There was little talent and I stood in the balcony, sipping a margarita on the rocks feeling embarrassed for the cast members on stage. So what did I expect?

Well, to me, burlesque should be fun. It should be risque. It should tease and make fun of our inhibitions, but always dance on the edge of being inappropriate. The cast should have talent. They don’t have to be perfect Barbies, but they should be able to sing or dance — preferably both. It should be sexy, but tasteful in its tastelessness. If that makes sense. It should entertain, not simply shock.

I wanted to like the show — I really did. In fact, it was at my suggestion that our group of five headed out to see it. I’m also into supporting local art, so I’m disappointed that I can’t rave about this latest production. So as not to be completely negative, I should mention that I’m proud that Fairbanks folks are willing to take a chance and try this art form, the promotional items were cool and some of the remixes selected for the routines were catchy. However, I do hope Naked Stage Productions’ next show delivers a punchy, risque work that sticks a little closer to traditional burlesque. Good luck on the next round!

 

Shane is one: Walking, waving and stealing my heart

Hi! I'm Shane Dawson and I turned one on Jan. 6!

Shane is one-years-old. He has four teeth and says two words: “Mama” and “mum-mum.” “Mum-mum” means food. He can walk like crazy and when he does he gets really excited with himself and laughs along the way. He’s getting better and better and now can weave and bob across the house. It’s amazingly sweet. You can’t help but cheer him on. Even his sister, Gabriella, gets into the excitement and counts his steps. This is quite the coup as she’s a little jealous.

Shane loves unloading drawers in the kitchen and getting into cabinets. He gets scolded when he starts poking around under the sink. He’s claimed two drawers and a cabinet of pans as official areas of play. My wooden spoons and a white spatula are great for beating on the lids of my set of stockpots. I let go long ago and have approved.

Shane’s eyes are magnificent. They’re always changing colors. Sometimes they’re a cool, steely blue. At other times, they’re green. Sometimes they look bright blue; it depends on the light, his clothing and, I believe, his mood. This is a trait he’s inherited from his dad.

Shane loves banana-strawberry yogurt, Mum-Mums, Cheerios and quesadilla slices. When it’s time to eat, I’ll provide a spoon or fork and try to show the boy how to use it, but he prefers to mush things between his fingers. He’s all about how things feel right now. This is most evident by his form of saying “hi,” which is to poke you in the mouth and try to feel your teeth. He does this to everyone. My friend, Jasmine, claims he’s destined to be a dentist. If so, I wouldn’t mind!

My little boy is stout! Not fat, just thick. He weighs nearly as much as his big sister who’s three-years-old and certainly fills out his 12-month-sized clothes. He’s got muscular legs and a squinched little butt that I find utterly adorable.

Shane loves the bathtub. For Christmas and his birthday he got a bunch of bath toys. They are put to use, believe me! That boy has the most fun in the tub and has no fear in the water. When he shares a bath with his sister, it’s the one place where he dominates. He’ll just plow right over Gabriella to get to whatever he wants and he never complains about getting his hair washed – thank heaven!

The latest development is that Shane’s learning to wave “hi.” It’s something I’ve been trying to show him for some time, but two days ago, I swear, I saw the concept click. His eyes got large and he looked at me waving and then did it a few times himself. Now he thinks it’s hilarious and when I see it, my heart warms.

So, one whole year and the boy has survived our crazy family. He’s come so far and so have we all. It was hard having two little ones in the beginning. At times, I didn’t think I had it in me to mother both of my kids well. I keep saying that I need to find a rhythm, but I’m not so sure things we’ll ever get easier, I will just be more practiced to handle them. Not to be a braggart, but I’m now able to simultaneously do laundry, cook dinner, pop in and out of the living room to play with the two kids and sometimes chat on the phone. This is big for me. Despite all of my ineptitude, I’m thankful for my little guy. Shane is beautiful and we’re in this wild ride together. I just hope he can love me a measly fraction of the amount I love him.

Shane's unhappy expressions are even sweet to me.

Life IS good with this guy around.

Shane with his beloved Uncle Andrew.

Shane in the buff.

Shane was a little dinosaur for Halloween. Gabriella picked out his costume.

My little premie baby shortly after we came home from the hospital a little over a year ago.

 

What I learned in San Francisco

There was almost a full moon.

Don’t snag a cup of coffee just because it’s the same thing you ordered. People are feisty about their coffee. If you’re wrong, you may just get berated in Italian as I did in an Organic Coffee Co.

Wear comfy shoes. You’ll be walking and typically at a fast pace. The crowd doesn’t slow down to accommodate a wobbly, unsure stride.

One block can make all the difference. For instance, just two and half blocks past Bloomingdale’s you’re in Crackville. I walked that direction to find the Warfield Theatre. I was out and about around 12:30 p.m. on a random Tuesday and I passed some interesting characters. The further I got, the more hyper-aware I became of my pink backpack and straight-laced look.

Anything can happen at anytime. I was right behind a man that did a B-line from the crowd and did a karate-kick, knocking the Salvation Army sign into a poor woman in a Santa hat. After the kick, he kept walking, so did everyone else. Then I realized what he was sipping was a giant can of Budweiser. Nobody seemed surprised except for the poor Santa hat woman. She yelled, “What’s your problem?” I wanted to ask if she was okay, but I didn’t. I kept walking too.

When you're in the Warfield Theatre -- look up!

Smokers can feel the impact of a strong anti-tobacco campaign underway in California. Cigarettes aren’t easy to find. And although you can smoke as you walk, it’s can be difficult to stop and smoke. Fancy, schmancy restaurants and hotels require smokers to be more than 25 feet from their doors and if a smoker finds a nook to partake, then they must endure the abhorrence of serious anti-smokers who stare with expressions of disgust or tell their kids “Smoking is bad!” Here, smoking isn’t cool.

Grab a French panini to munch on when you're killing time before your flight.

There’s so much to do, see and get, you’ll likely blow your budget. Access to trendy shopping, eclectic eateries, the art and music scene, the beautiful Bay area landscape – all of this pulls at the purse strings. The key is to spend sparingly on items that you must carry, but be open to spending an additional $10 for an entrée. Take advantage of the free stuff. There is an abundance of free stuff everywhere as so many entities are competing for your time, your stomach and your pocketbook. Keep your eye out for the goodies. I’ve snagged a free lunch, specialty chocolate, newspapers, luggage tags, an energy shot, calendars, and even free beer. Hey, I’m all about the free.

DON’T WEAR A CONFERENCE BADGE AROUND TOWN. Not only does this look silly, but also you’re a sure-fire target for the crack-head on the corner. If you wanna get hustled keep it on, otherwise, only place that lanyard around your neck when you walk through the Moscone doors. Just sayin’. Coordinators even print the safety tip in their conference program, so take heed. Dress in layers. It can get hot, especially if you’re doing a great bit of walking. It can also quickly turn cold if you’re headed toward the water and it’s windy.

Take a moment and look up, look around. It’s beautiful! The buildings are amazing and they’re everywhere. Old stuff, new stuff, pillars, ornate moulding, manicured gardens on a rooftop, small oases and plazas — there’s plenty to admire.

 

Ode to the Rice Krispy Treat

The mega Rice Krispy Treat is sold on the UAF campus for $1.59. I was only able to eat half. This sucker's huge!

I haven’t written on this blog for a month. I realized this just moments ago and thought, “Hell, I better get work…but what do I write about?” The giant Rice Krispy Treat that I just purchased at the West Ridge Cafe was sitting before me and lo and behold, inspiration struck.

So, Rice Krispy Treats. They’re awesome and they’re easy, so therefore, they are one of my favorite treats to whip up. Although they’re not baked, I also seem to offer these up whenever there’s a bake sale I need to contribute to. Again, they’re not baked, but nobody seems to mind. I think everybody loves Rice Krispy Treats. Seriously, have you ever met a single person that didn’t like them? I know, weird, huh? They’re universally loved. There are millions of hits when you type the words “Rice Krispy Treats” into Google and they’re even included in Wikipedia. The entry’s kinda lame, but I did learn that the treats were developed nearly 100 years ago by the Home Economics Department at the Kellogg Company. They were designed as a fundraiser for Camp Fire Girls.

So, what else about Rice Krispy Treats… oh, the best recipe I’ve ever had for them is one where you brown the butter and you add salt. This may seem odd, but try it and show your love to the Rice Krispy Treat! Here’s the recipe:

Salted Brown Butter Krispy Treats

Makes 16 2-inch squares or 32 1- x 2-inch small bars

4 ounces (1/4 pound or 1 stick) unsalted butter, plus extra for the pan
1 10-ounce bag marshmallows
Heaping 1/4 teaspoon coarse sea salt
6 cups Rice Krispies cereal (about half a 12-ounce box)

Butter (or coat with non-stick spray) an 8-inch square cake pan with 2-inch sides.

In a large pot, melt butter over medium-low heat. It will melt, then foam, then turn clear golden and finally start to turn brown and smell nutty. Stir frequently, scraping up any bits from the bottom as you do. Don’t take your eyes off the pot as while you may be impatient for it to start browning, the period between the time the butter begins to take on color and the point where it burns is often less than a minute.

As soon as the butter takes on a nutty color, turn the heat off and stir in the marshmallows. The residual heat from the melted butter should be enough to melt them, but if it is not, turn it back on low until the marshmallows are smooth.

Remove the pot from the stove and stir in the salt and cereal together. Quickly spread into prepared pan. I liked to use a piece of waxed or parchment paper that I’ve sprayed with oil to press it firmly and evenly into the edges and corners, though a silicon spatula works almost as well.

Enjoy!

 

Some love for T.S. Eliot

September 26 is T.S. Eliot's birthday (1888) and in celebration, I'm posting sections from a paper I got a real kick out of writing -- it was on "The Waste Land." Enjoy the chunks and then go out and read more Eliot!

There is so much to be learned when a poem is unlocked. The 433 lines of T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” haunts readers and critics alike. It’s an undeniable hallmark of Modern poetry and it’s ambiguity and fragmentation create much opportunity for those willing to delve into the rich work.

The poem was written amidst the Modern Art movement and the social trauma experienced as a result of World War I. It is a reflection of its time. The poem is confusing and chaotic, not only by its shifty and amorphous “I,” but also by it’s mosaic quality and garbled sense of time. Essentially, the poem is a collection of fragments that, when digested together, reveal a jumbled and confused outlook of the early 20^th century.

Eliot’s contemporaries in the visual arts influenced “The Waste Land’s” fragmentation. In the early 1900s, artists were experimenting with the notions of Cubism and Surrealism. These movements aimed to deconstruct form and reality and to embrace a chaotic sensibility. Some scholars claim that “The Waste Land” is the quintessential Surrealist poem because it’s broken into a multitude of fragments. Only when these fragments are taken as a whole do they create an impression of the world or reality. The result is a dreamlike quality.

Tour Eiffel aux arbres by Robert Delaunay is a great example of Cubism.

The influence of Cubism runs strong in the poem as well. A Cubist painter examines his model or inspiration from a multitude of angles and then merges the various views into a single image. Eliot does the same with his fragments in “The Waste Land.” The poet doesn’t just limit himself to a single point of view, a specific time, or place in the poem. Eliot captures many viewpoints and provides them all.

Published in 1922, “The Waste Land” emerged four years after World War I, yet the psychological toll of the war was still apparent. Society’s psyche had taken a tremendous blow, leaving masses of people anxious and hopeless. I read that between 1914 and 1918, eight and a half million soldiers were killed. Additionally, thirteen million civilians died because of massacres, military battles, starvation, exposure and the world’s most destructive outbreak of influenza. Obviously, Eliot and his generation were shrouded in melancholy and this obviously influenced “The Waste Land.”

The poems’ fragmentation parallels the sense of devastation prevalent during the time it was written, and mimics the symptoms of shell shock. Shell shock is considered the signature injury among soldiers of World War I. Helmets were not introduced until two years into the war effort and hordes of soldiers were exposed to exploding ordnances and the horrors of trench warfare. The result was a tremendous population of soldiers afflicted by traumatic brain injuries that had mysterious symptoms and no cure.

In “A Game of Chess,” this shell shock sense of paranoia, anxiety, and sensitivity to noise is most prevalent. Eliot would have been very familiar with this condition at the time he wrote the poem. According to psychologists that penned “Shell Shock and Traumatic Brain Injury,” ten percent of British battle casualties were categorized as some form of shell shock. By 1917, shell shock was responsible for one-seventh of all discharges from the British Army. These facts demonstrate the catastrophic impact this type of injury had on British society, and explains why these symptoms bled into poetry crafted in the early 20^th century.

It will be interesting to note whether there is a resurgence of fragmentation in the poetry of our time. Growing discontent over the American war effort in Iraq and Afghanistan, coupled with a resurgence of traumatic brain injury among soldiers returning from the war, could create an atmosphere similar to the one in which Eliot was writing nearly one hundred years ago.

“The Waste Land” — the poem’s title refers to a barren land, void of life. However, the poem is rife with possibility. The poem contradicts itself continuously and through it’s chaotic nature, some sort of order emerges. The poem speaks to its time and the social fiber in which it was created.

 

A blind date way back when

This picture of me was taken ~2000 in the Blue Loon parking lot. It was taken by my good friend Emily on a visit to the 'Banks.

Have you ever been on a blind date? I’ve been on one. It happened way back in 2001 (I think) when I moved back to Alaska. I was living in Anchorage and I didn’t know anyone except my sister and brother-in-law. I was pretty bored. I mean, the family was great, but I needed some friends and at age 24 I wanted to go out. It’s not so fun to indulge in the night life if you’re by yourself. So… I was bemoaning my loneliness to my mother and somehow the news traveled to an old friend of my mom’s who was also living in Anchorage. The result? I was set-up with a young man my mother’s friend worked with. His name was Fritz.

Well, actually that was his nickname, I don’t remember his real first or last name because the encounter was totally anticlimactic. Numbers were passed along and Fritz called one afternoon when I got home from work. He seemed nice enough on the phone and I was sort of impressed that he was willing to meet me. I mean, I would never have the gumption to just call someone out of the blue and say, “Hi. I heard about you. Want to go out?” He did, though. The scenario seemed promising. I learned he was at an entry level job at a large bank in Anchorage and had just returned from a whirlwind European adventure. Cool. I was down to meet. He gave me directions to a coffee house. It all seemed peachy.

Well, turns out the coffee house was off of this weird frontage road that only ran in one direction. I missed the road and then got lost finding my way back. You might wonder: Why didn’t you just call and get directions? Well, this was before every single living, breathing being had a cell phone, so it wasn’t so easy. I had to try and figure things out on my own. I showed up more than half an hour late. When I arrived there was a blonde fellow standing outside the coffee shop. I thought it may be Fritz, but he seemed really young, so I went inside to look around. Nobody inside looked like they were waiting or looked like their name might be Fritz. I went up to the counter and ordered a caramel latte. With coffee in hand, I plopped into a nearby table and contemplated what to do. Should I ask all of the males around if they were Fritz? That would be slightly embarrassing as I moved from table to table. Should I leave? I mean I don’t know if I’d wait after a half an hour. What’s the likelihood this guy would stick around just waiting and waiting? Just as I rose to head back outside to see if Fritz was the blonde dude by the door, in came Fritz. He was the blonde dude. He said, “Amy?”

He sat down and we proceeded to talk. Well, first I gushed with apologies because I really did feel bad that I had almost stood him up. Fritz seemed like a nice guy. I remember we talked about his trip and getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road when he was in the UK. I don’t remember what degree he had just graduated from UAA with, but what does linger is the fact that he seemed so young – teenagerish. The poor guy was just three years younger than me, but that seemed like an eternity in the early 20s domain. He seemed like a baby and although he was cute, I saw him more as a brother. Several ounces into my 16-ounce coffee I knew the chance for romance with Fritz was probably not gonna happen. I wasn’t even sure if we’d see each other again.

After about 45 minutes of chatting, I made up an excuse of why I needed to leave. I can’t remember what it was, but I wanted to zip out to my car and have a smoke, drive away and sorta reflect on whether I could date someone younger than me. You see, going younger has never been my thing. Ever since I was 14, I’ve dated people older than me. I remember, at the time, the idea of dating someone like Fritz made me feel old. Plus, although he was nice and seemed like he had his life together, I just got too much of a goody-goody vibe. Hell, I wanted to party. I liked loud music, dancing and drinking. He seemed like he was totally career-driven (even at 21) and did a lot of reading. Please, don’t misunderstand the 24-year-old Amy. I was into my career. I liked to read, but I needed to date someone more like me. Despite the potential match my mom and her friend thought they were making, I felt that I couldn’t comply. I decided that I wouldn’t call him again right there in my car before I ever even left the coffeehouse. I could even see him in the rearview mirror. I figured, if he called me, I would consider going out with him again. You know, give him a second chance. I didn’t want to be mean, but I wouldn’t be calling him.

Well, I never had the opportunity to decline another meeting. My ego took a blow as days went by and Fritz never called. I was a little upset because I felt rejected and although I had every intention of rejecting him, this sorta stung. I started thinking about the blind date more and more. What was it about me that he didn’t like? These questions spurred a week or two of self examination. I got a little reality check and learned that maybe I wasn’t all that. It was a good lesson to learn. I suppose that’s why all these years later, Fritz and that caramel latte come back to mind. Hmmm.

 

Tell me about the Prophet

Adam likes to discuss religion. He enjoys talking to folks about what they think and why. I think we're on a missionary circuit because we usually have visitors from two different faiths at our house most weekends. I know it's childish, but I don't answer the door when they come. Adam, on the other hand, will talk to them for an hour or more. I think he's good training for them!

On a recent Tuesday at about 11 a.m., Adam ran into a man he now coins “The Prophet.” He saw him at the West Farmer’s Loop Transfer Station, which is a nice way to say, “the Dump.”

As Adam unloaded the demolition debris from the bed of our pick-up, the Prophet approached. He asked, “Can I sing you a song?” Adam didn’t say “yes,” but motioned it was okay.

“He started off with a rendition of ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.’ Then he said, ‘If you don’t like rain, then you don’t like God. If you don’t like it, then you don’t like anything God does.”

The Prophet then erupted into song again – something, Adam believes, he made up from the Bible.

After his second song, he stared into the truck at our kids. Adam laughs proudly when he tells me that Gabriella looked at him and swiftly pushed the button to roll her window up, all the way.

After Gabriella’s rebuff, the Prophet then professed that if we all were to trust in Jesus, we wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Adam’s attention was taken for awe and the Prophet proceeded.

He told Adam about a trip to a village near Tijuana he’d made a pilgrimage to. There, the Prophet saw people making their homes from mud and growing food in poor soil. In that village, little kids would sit down and listen to him preach. He then quickly segued into the Permanent Fund Dividend and how it was the reason for his trip North. The Prophet wanted to use the Dividend for good, he said, but then felt too guilty upon his arrival to see it through. He was saddened by what the oil was doing to the earth and therefore, couldn’t use the dividend at all. Now, he claims to live a petroleum-free life.

The Prophet lives in the woods, somewhere near the transfer station across from the university’s Taku Parking Lot.

My husband, whose reverence always impresses me, wasn’t deterred by the indications of the balding man’s twisted mind. He engaged. He asked him what he heard when he prayed. He was surprised by the Prophet’s response, so much so, that we’ve talked about it several times since. The experience was moving enough for me to ask more questions – enough, at least, to write this post.

The Prophet told him that God is above the conscience. When you speak to God, you hear him through your own inner voice.

“I told him that that was the most intelligent answer I’d gotten from any kind of clergy about that. Then I told him that I asked God why I couldn’t see his face or hear his voice.”

Adam relayed a story of a time he’d thought those thoughts while driving on a long road trip. He explained that in his mind, he asked what God sounded like. Was he supposed to hear something outside of what he heard in his mind’s eye?

“About that time, I was driving down the road and a caribou darted in front of me. Then through my inner voice, I thought about how the beauty of a sunset, a pretty mountain, cloud formations, a perfect animal, anything natural that you enjoy looking at, was God’s face. His voice is then the sound of the wind in the trees, the water over the rocks in a brook, or the sound of a loon on a lake – all of this is God’s voice.”

When Adam told the Prophet this, he said the man’s jaw dropped.

If you can believe it, I came across this photo I took of "The Prophet" from May of 2009. Here he is near the University of Alaska Fairbanks with his train of carts filled with cardboard boxes.

“He said that all of his hair was standing on end. He said that he felt like the Holy Spirit was touching him. By that time, we heard the ‘beep, beep, beep’ of a dump truck backing up,” Adam said. He was eager to break free.

I asked Adam, “Do you think the guy’s nuts?”

“Yep,” he said. “I think he’s touched, but I think anyone that converses with God constantly, all day long, is cared for by God.”

He’ll be okay, we suppose.

“I think most of his conversations are one-sided, so to connect with the guy and have him actually listen was probably pretty rare.”

“I’d heard of him before, having conflict with other folks that had talked with him. I even had a little conflict with him when I tried to shake his hand. He said, ‘I don’t shake hands. If we talk about God, we’re embracing like brothers in the Holy Spirit!”

“I told him, I said, ‘God bless you, my friend — Can I tell you that?’”

The Prophet didn’t say anything. He just motioned it was okay.

This was the close of the two’s conversation. Adam hopped in the truck and only looked back at him through the rear view mirror as he drove away.